


The Night In Islamabad

by throughtheparadox



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 16:59:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3658143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/throughtheparadox/pseuds/throughtheparadox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I’ve been watching ASiB yesterday and was reminded of Benedict’s interview saying that he’s convinced Sherlock and Irene “consummated” their relationship in Karachi, I decided to do this one-shot. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Night In Islamabad

As soon as he left, he felt a pang in his chest.

Mycroft was sure to let The Woman go, much to his suggestion of course. It was unnerving. He wanted to go back for reasons he’s not even sure of. Shaking his head, Sherlock raised the collar of his coat and headed back to Baker Street.

Nothing.

Days had passed and he has not heard from Mycroft. He thought of picking up the phone once or twice but decided against it. What would he even ask his brother? This is absurd.

A case came. Then another. He had everyone in mute for almost a week now, his thoughts fleeting to The Woman every now and then. Sometimes, when his eyes are closed, he could see her red lips forming a thin smile, her grey eyes studying him smartly. He would open them and curse as he rub off the goosebumps in his arms.

Annoyed, he stomped off to his bedroom, shutting the door behind him. His eyes snapping to his bedside drawer, he lifted a loose wood-board where he hid his cigarette stack. Lighting one, Sherlock’s eyes caught a red box with a black cord at the corner of the drawer—it was Irene Adler’s “Christmas present”.

Sherlock grunted, throwing the box to the other side of the room. The least he would want right now is a reminder that she ever existed. He was about to close his eyes, attempting to delete her in his mind palace when he saw the blue dressing gown she wore behind the door, the same place she left his coat before. He spent little time sleeping the past few days that he never noticed it there. His feet led him to it, almost in a trance as his fingers traced the material of the fabric. The quirk of Ms. Adler’s eyes flashed in his mind and he thought about his emotions towards her.

Irene Adler was an equal. Alone in his mind, Sherlock admitted that he lusted over her in a non-physical way. Her incredible skill to play with both intellect and emotion astounded him to the brink of attraction and he surrendered to it silently. She trusted him, he knew, as soon as she sent him the camera phone that fateful Christmas night. It was an acknowledgement of their connection, as he viewed it, and has become one of the reasons why he was able to spout out that compliment when she played him with the phone’s code.

She was an attractive woman, he was not blind to deny that, but it was the way she uses her beauty and her brains that made his thoughts tangle. And most of all, she was just as interested to figure him out as he is to her. They were each other’s puzzles, almost to good to be true.

Sherlock sighed as he put out the cigarette, not needing it anymore. He needed to address the situation before it drives him mad. At last, Sherlock succumbed to his deduction; he did care for Irene Adler but the problem is that she still chose to play The Game rather than admit to it. They were both rational people and he wouldn’t have expected any other outcome.

And because of that, he decided to bury the memories of her in the depths of his mind.

Days and weeks had passed and as if fate has come into play, Mycroft phones Sherlock. The older Holmes revealed he had sent Irene Adler to gather information from the terrorists to wash his and Sherlock’s hands clean with regards to the Coventry mishap as well as the fact that this was Ms. Adler’s suggestion in exchange of protection. In the twist of events, she was caught and was bound to be executed.

"And you know I couldn’t just leave here, can I?" Mycroft said, planting the suggestion in Sherlock’s head.

"Are you asking me to go to her aid?" Sherlock asked almost coldly.

"Would you really allow her to die just like that, brother dear?" Mycroft asked pointedly. "Last time she died, I heard you were devastated.”

"You have agents under you feet, Mycroft. Why not send them?" Sherlock snapped impatiently.

"May I remind you that we’re in this situation because of you? I cleaned up your mess and the least you can do is return the favour." Mycroft hissed.

***  
“When I say run… RUN!” Sherlock breathed.

After a tedious encounter and a marathon-like run, Sherlock found Irene Adler catching her breath in the nearest alley.

"Are they gone?" Irene asked, her breathing hitched.

Sherlock gave her a brief nod, his heart pounding at his chest as he catch some air. “Already taken care of.”

Irene raised her eyebrows at him, that curious and witty grey eyes of hers studying him. “Care to explain?”

Sherlock shrugged the veil off his head, his eyes burning as he gazed upon Irene. Averting his eyes as he felt the blood burn in his neck, Sherlock spoke. “I had arranged a place for you to stay the night and have prepared the documents Mycroft had promised you.”

"Oh…That’s… That’s fantastic." Irene replied, her tone not matching her words.

Sherlock led her two alleys past and a car was waiting for them there. Without a word, Sherlock started driving with Irene in the passenger seat.

"You’re bleeding." He heard Irene say, breaking the long silence with her fingers reaching for his shoulder. Sherlock flinched and Irene stopped her hand mid-air.

"It’s just a scratch." Sherlock said, his eyes fixed on the road, knuckles almost white as he gripped the steering wheel tight.

Irene rolled her eyes and swiped away the torn fabric of the sleeve. She sees a slight gash, bloodied and almost purple.

"We’re here." Sherlock muttered, shutting the engine off.

As he talked to the front desk and settled the arrangements, Sherlock led Irene to her room.

"Let me have a look at that." Irene mused as Sherlock was about to take his leave. He studied her, the unreadable look in her face sending shivers down his spine.

"I can manage." He simply replied, turning away from Irene when she caught his arm.

"I don’t want to owe you anything, Sherlock and I know you don’t want that as well. If you don’t want me to be indebted to you, I suggest you let me handle that wound of yours." She argued.

Sherlock stared at her and seeing her persistence, he finally obliged.

Irene phoned the front desk and asked if she could get a first-aid kit. As they waited, silence loomed between them.

"I’ll get you something to eat." Sherlock said, but Irene shook her head.

"Not hungry." she replied and at that, they stared at each other in recollection of their past encounter. Irene bit her lip, averting her eyes first and Sherlock blinked, a lump on his throat rising. Both of the, almost jumped at the sound of someone knocking.

"Take off your shirt." Sherlock heard Irene say, the first-aid kit at hand. She rolled her eyes at him when he winced slightly, assessing any hint of suggestion in her voice. "Don’t worry. I’m not the pushy type." she said with a slight smile.

Sherlock did as he was told, leaving him sitting with only his trousers and shoes on. He watched as Irene walk towards the loo with a cloth, giving it a squeeze before she dabbed it onto his wound. Giving out a huff, Sherlock flinched at the contact.

"Just a scratch now, is it?" Irene said as she put povidone-iodine on a cotton ball.

The detective watched The Woman, her features tender in the low light. He found himself adoring that slight tilt on her lips as she clean his wound and he figured she is internally laughing at him for flinching at such a small gash. He could feel heat rising up his body at the mere contact of her fingers in his skin. He was exasperated, wanting this moment to finish just so he could leave and rest and be done with her like once long ago. The whispers in his mind about his admittance of feeling for her remained to be dismissed, making an unexplained anger boil inside him.

"That’s enough." He suddenly snapped just as Irene started to put a bandage on his shoulder.

"I just need to pin it." Irene said, her voice tired and her eyes weary.

Sherlock stood, blood pumping rapidly in his veins. “I said that’s enough!” he retorted, almost hitting her as he snapped his arm free from her touch.

Irene looked at him in annoyance, standing up to meet his agitated gaze. “Just because you saved my life, doesn’t mean you own me, Sherlock Holmes. In the first place, I didn’t ask for your help. I can’t even understand why you came for me!”

"That’s none of your business." Sherlock snapped.

"I was ready to say goodbye. I don’t need your pity or whatever it is that you’re attempting to do. Am I wrong earlier? Do you want me to be in your debt? Or is it your brother? What more is it that the great Holmes brothers would want from me?" Irene asked, her expression cold.

Sherlock could feel his breathing heavy, his heart rate increased as Irene’s words elicited a strange reaction in him. He could feel the words sting him sharply, the glint in her eyes making him strangely lost. Why was she demanding so much?

"I didn’t pity you and I certainly didn’t want you to owe me anything." He replied, voice barely a whisper as he feel his eyes almost blur at the rate of his pulse.

Irene crossed her arms on her chest, rolling her eyes at Sherlock’s response. “Thank you. Is that what you want to hear? Because I am grateful…but I’m done with you and your brother. I did my end of the deal. I want my freedom back.”

Sherlock saw Irene slump back to the bed and for the first time in the night, he took notice of the changes in her. Her frame was thinner compared to when he last saw her, a faint scar visible on her bottom lip. Irene brushed the hair off her face and Sherlock saw a lace of bruises in her arms as the long sleeve of her garb slid down to her elbows. Irene kept her eyes fixed away from Sherlock, her hands balled into fists.

"I… I’m sorry." Sherlock whispered.

Irene looked up at him, not expecting he would give out an apology. “I… I didn’t mean to snap at you. I guess we’re just both tired.”

"Yes… I… Good night, Ms. Adler." Sherlock muttered, heading for the door.

"Wait, you forgot your…" Irene called, handing Sherlock the heap of fabric he was wearing earlier. Her words were cut off but the strange stare he was giving her, his blue eyes blazing but giving nothing away.

Sherlock could feel his heart hammering in his chest, his admiration for Irene Adler reaching its peak. He wanted to know her—the reason why she was driven to survive, the root of her intelligence, the depth of her story. She had showed him a sincere interest, a combination of emotion and wit that was in level with what John Watson and Jim Moriarty had given him separately. He felt a drowning sensation as he stared into the depths of Irene’s grey eyes, a foreign feeling washing over him, his head almost bursting in pain as he tried to override his thoughts. He was about to turn away when he heard her say his name, nothing but a blank utterance that led to his next action.

In a flicker of a moment, his lips touched hers, a new sensation rushing in his body. He had kissed other women before, one when he wanted to gain timeless access to the chemistry laboratory in the uni, the second was initiated by someone else as a dare, the others case-related mishaps in his earlier years. None of those mattered, making him feel like how his fingertips feel against a corpse’s skin—but this gave him an air of affirmation. Irene didn’t respond to his action for what seemed like an eternity but when he was about to pull away as his thoughts started to alert him this is a bad idea, he felt Irene return the movement of his lips, her fingers curling on his hair. He pulled her close and her body melted into his, the bare skin on his chest touching the material of her clothes. All the logical thoughts in his brain started to buzz, his internal analysis of his actions forcing him to continue. This is an inquiry, an experiment of sorts for him to finally realise Irene Adler’s intrusion into his system. As he felt her move against him, her kisses answering his own, Sherlock submitted to his deduction.

Irene pulled away, her hands on Sherlock’s chest as the detective trapped her in an embrace. “What was that?” she said, almost breathless.

Sherlock closed the door behind them, leaning Irene’s back to it as it was shut. Instead of answering, he returned to her lips, his fingers trailing her body. There was something erotic about the way he was trying to figure out what she was thinking, how he was going to surprise or amuse her since this was her area of expertise. He held her, almost lifting her from the floor as he swayed her towards the bed.

"What’re you trying to do?" Irene asked, her eyes dazed as she stared at him, curious as he is. The air suddenly felt thick around them, more tension brewing in as Sherlock felt more drawn to Irene’s every attempt to ask questions. She wasn’t asking him because she was confused or frazzled, he was absolute that the thought of this happening also crossed her mind as soon as she saw him, and he believes she was asking in parallel to her outmost sincerity if he would want this. If he would want her.

"Trying to test out a theory." Sherlock breathed against the curve of Irene’s neck. He heard a soft moan escape her lips as he rolled his tongue over her collarbone, his hands fumbling to release her from the clothes she was wearing. Pushing him slightly and rolling off the garb she was wearing in one fluid motion, Sherlock watched as she flick off the clasp of her bra and let it slide down her arms to the floor. She pulled him to her, the detective with his back firmly on the bed, his hands feeling the curve of her breasts on his palms. Irene let out a sigh as Sherlock did so, and he figured the action might be eliciting pleasurable sensations.

Irene pulled on his trousers with her expert hands, running her fingers on the bulge underneath Sherlock’s pants. He gave a low groan at the contact, the heat rushing all over his body. When Irene came to reveal his erection, Sherlock winced, trying to figure out what Irene might be thinking of in the moment.

Impatiently, Sherlock rolled Irene over and she gasped. “Taking my title away from me, Sherlock?” she smirked, marvelling at him. His eyes was concentrated as he brushed a hair away from Irene’s face, the parting of her lips sending waves of conflict in his head. He had never been in a level of physical attraction before, appreciation yes but never a desire for contact until now, and he took it out as a manifestation of Irene’s mind. Her face matched her brilliant brains, making the man in him be aware of carnal desires. She already had sex with his mind a thousand times, starting when they first met in Belgravia—that thrusting and teasing of mind games was almost arousing to him underneath all the denial. He wanted to know her, uncover her layer by layer. He figured this physicality would help him understand that dynamics of her thinking.

He dipped down to meet her lips once more, his fingers trailing down the apex of her thighs.

"What are you trying to… Ahhh… Ah Sherlock!" Irene moaned as Sherlock slid his finger inside her, an air of pride rushing to his head as he saw her writhe under his touch.

"Pleased with yourself, are you?" Irene commented, breathless. To her surprise, Sherlock smirked.

"Would you like me to stop?" Sherlock asked, trailing kisses on Irene’s neck.

Irene ran her hands on Sherlock’s back, holding him close to her, lips nipping the detective’s ear. “You still owe me an explanation.”

"I thought I only owed you dinner." Sherlock whispered in her ear, making Irene shiver.

"I thought you didn’t know how to flirt, Mr. Holmes…" Irene replied, reaching for Sherlock’s lips.

Sherlock deepened the thrust of his finger, making Irene gasp. “I don’t.”

They stared at each other, both eyes drunken in anticipation. He tugged Irene’s knickers off and The Woman slid it down her legs gracefully, her fingers touching Sherlock’s length in the process. She smiled at him deviously which challenged him, making him roll his tongue over the her taut nipples. Irene arched her back in the process as Sherlock did it again, now combined with the movement of his fingers inside her deducing the action makes her come undone.

"Do—don’t look so smug…" Irene said, rolling him over and pinning his hands to the side of his head. "I like you on this angle, Mr. Holmes… Much more fitting."

"I’m not the one gasping for the last half hour." Sherlock commented, feeling a lump rise on his throat as he saw Irene on top of him, that smart smile on her face arousing emotions in him that he suppressed for so long.

Irene rolled her hips to his, her teeth grazing his lips as a moan escaped his mouth. She came down on him and he felt her tighten around him, making him grip the sheets on his sides. Irene gave him a triumphant smile.

"You were saying?" Irene whispered, her lips brushing his.

Not wanting to give her the satisfaction, Sherlock started to thrust against her, making Irene bounce off of him, her head thrown back with pleasure. He pushed into her harder and she met him halfway, slowly and intimately at first, then fast and demanding. Words were cut short and names were shouted and sheets were gripped and skins were marked red when at last, both of them reached the height of desire, both mental and physical.

Irene slumped down on Sherlock and he rolled her over to his side, Irene’s hand on his bare chest, both of them breathing heavily. His hands found the curls of her hair and unconsciously, he affectionately ran his fingers through it. Irene looked up at him, her grey us still questioning. What is this about?

Sherlock looked at her, trying to comprehend what just happened. Irene raised her eyebrows at him, expecting.

"Well?" Irene asked, her fingers twirling on his chest.

"Well, what?" Sherlock replied quietly.

Irene smiled sardonically. “Was it just one of your experiments?”

"I… I… This is what you do for a living, yes?" Sherlock asked, his eyes leaving hers.

Irene raised her eyebrows at him, turning away. “I don’t have sex with my clients. I merely there to provide what laymen call “kink”.”

Sherlock bit his tongue, not sure how to respond. Irene’s back was to him and he figured he might have offended her somehow. The way she hunched her shoulder signalled him that she wanted to end the discussion.

But, for the first time in his life, he wanted her to know that what just happened mattered to him.

"Ms. Adler… I… I’m not particularly good with… With emotions and…. Well, sentiment." Sherlock struggled. He found it hard to say what he wanted to say, especially with his mind filled with clutter for the first time. It was hard to tell her his reasons, hard to admit them in the first place. It was an unprecedented moment that even took him in shock.

To his surprise, Irene turned back to him and an understanding passed between them. Sherlock felt his admiration and affection grow, her place in his mind palace build its foundation stronger. What happened between them was not a lie. It was not just a carnal need as well. It was something more, something that ordinary people could never understand.

They spent the night just lying there, bodied next to each other, hand in hand. The silence was not silence at all, both waiting for the sun the seep through the windows. When night turned to day and Sherlock found Irene resting in his arms, he took the cue to leave.

When Irene stirred and felt the cold side of the bed empty, she smiled at the new beginning the day has brought. Finding the note on the next pillow, Irene brushed her fingers on the four words that ended the short message.

_Until we meet again._


End file.
